


Stiles Vs. Turkey

by aprettysmalldose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Feelings, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, Thanksgiving, crack!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aprettysmalldose/pseuds/aprettysmalldose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Completely unprompted turkey crack!fic that I wrote for my tumblr for Thanksgiving and found again in my google docs and actually I kind of like it!</p>
<p>Features indecent fondling of one Tom!theturkey; oblivious!Stiles and smitten!Derek. No Isaac Laheys or Sheriff Stilinskis were harmed in the writing of this fic.</p>
<p>Also there is porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stiles Vs. Turkey

**Author's Note:**

> Post season 3A. No real plot is present here. There are feelings, and allusions to the darkness in Stiles' heart. This is un beta-d.

Stiles wails into the phone, "Scott, oh my god _Scott_ , I'm doing unspeakable things to Tom's butt!"

 

There's a choking sound and Scott says, sounding strangled, "Stiles everyone is here right now and I put you on speaker phone."

 

"--Ok?" Stiles is distracted by the immensely complicated art that is turkey carcass wrangling. Possibly he either over buttered it, or it wasn't supposed to be buttered yet or something, because this thing is 35lbs of pale disgusting pebbled slippery-ass slimy naked turkey flopping around in a giant pan.  

 

Then his brain catches up.

 

"Wait!  No!  What?  Nawww!  The turkey Scott, _the turkey_. I'm pretty sure the intimate details involved with stuffing a turkey are illegal in most states, I feel like a sexual deviant."

 

There's a period of silence over the line and then he hears Derek's voice say, flatly and yet still judgmentally, "You named your Thanksgiving Turkey _Tom_?"

 

And that's Stiles' limit with this whole endeavor.  

 

"Fuck you!" He yelps.  He hears multiple snickerings and laughs coming through on his cell.

 

"Fuck you all you can't have any, I'ma eat this goddamn turkey all by myself, you ungrateful jackasses can eat nothing and like it!"

 

And then he hangs up using a complicated maneuver with his chin and his shoulder, and lets the cell phone fall down to the counter.  

 

He's tired. He's frustrated. He is stuffed up to his elbows inside Tom the turkey's ass.  And nobody gives a damn anyway.  

 

Fuck.  

This was a stupid idea.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

They send Isaac over.  

 

“What’d you pick,” Stiles asks in a bored tone as he walks back into the living room, leaving the front door wide open for Isaac to let himself in, or not. Whatever.  

 

“Paper,” Isaac mutters sullenly as he shuffles in.

 

“Against Scott?”

 

“Yup,” he mutters even more sullenly.

 

Stiles snorts, “Ametuer.” He flops back onto the couch and jacks up the volume on The Collection as he stuffs another handful of cheetos in his mouth. Ah, the sweet sounds of extraneous cast members being murdered gruesomely. It’s soothing, that’s what it is.  

 

Isaac, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here, opens his mouth and says, “Scott says to tell you that everyone’s sorry, and we’re all really looking forward to eating the meal that you are putting so much time and effort into making. Scott says you are an amazing person probably the most skilled turkey wrangler on the planet.”  

 

“Scott didn’t say that,” Stiles glowers over at Isaac, “Allison wrote that down and had you memorize it.”

 

“It’s the thought that counts,” Isaac mutters.

 

“You ingrates want your Turkey and your stuffing and your sweet potato casserole, you’re going to have to give me something _I_ want.”

 

“And what do _you_ want,” Isaac heaves out a huffy sigh.  

 

“Derek,” Stiles answers smugly.

 

Isaac gasps, and recoils away in horror.  “Lydia was _right,”_ he breathes out.  

 

Stiles eyes him suspiciously, “What?”

 

But all Isaac is capable of doing is stumbling backwards and gaping in horror.

 

Stiles shrugs, turns back to The Collection and continues on with his request. “I want Derek, right here, in this living room, of his own free will.”  

 

Isaac makes an offended squeak.

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “He will get down on his knees-” Isaac makes a sound like he’s being tortured (Isaac is such a _weirdo_ seriously, _what_ Scott sees in him), “And apologize for insulting me. _Sincerely apologize,_ Ok? Like he _means it.”_  

 

Isaac makes a dry croaking sound, and Stiles flaps his hand at his general direction, dismissing him. “That is all,” He says serenely, channeling him some Glenn Close a la The Devil Wears Prada.  

 

Isaac stumbles out like a blind man.  

 

_Weirdo._ Seriously Scott.  

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.  Fuck it, at the time, Stiles had been consumed with visions of his own brilliance.  

 

Everyone was all shades of pissed at each other for a truly snarled web of reasons ever since the Darach was toppled and the threat of the Alpha Pack ended. There were questionable pack formations, bizarre loyalties, and friendships that changed at a moment’s notice. And amidst all this ongoing fuckery, it just came to Stiles; the solution to all the madness.

 

_If you feed them, they will all shut the fuck up and stop whining at you, and leave you to jerk off in your room in peace._

 

Or something close to that anyway.  

 

Thanksgiving being just around the corner, Stiles seized upon this perfect opportunity. _He was going to present everyone with a magnificent Thanksgiving feast and BOOM, all the pack problems would be solved._ People stuffed full of turkey are unable to hate on or otherwise attempt to murder other people, who are also stuffed full of turkey. It is known. Stiles is sure.

 

How hard could it be to fix up a few staples of the American Thanksgiving tradition and feed it to a bunch of werewolves and other assorted supernatural creatures? You stick a giant turkey in the oven, you whip up a bunch of mashed potatoes, slap some green beans in a pan and _voila,_ turkey dinner. Add in the enticement of his mother’s sweet potato casserole recipe, and Stiles had himself a bunch of aforementioned werewolves/supernatural creatures willing to sit down and eat at the same table together.  

 

That was about the point when it all started to fall apart.  Stiles was the only person excited about this happening, apparently, even though everyone had sounded willing when they agreed. No one cares - where they have it, what day they have it, what time they have it at, what activities (if any) should be planned - all these myriad of little details that Stiles _needs_ to iron out and all he gets are exasperation and apathy, and (bless you Scotty) grudging cooperation.

 

As it turns out, whipping up a turkey dinner for a party of 13 or so various assorted mythological creatures is nothing short of rocket science. The turkey has rules. _Rules._ Rules, which, if broken, doom any turkey dinner to failure before it even starts. That frozen mother fucker had to be thawed first by floating it in water. It was too big for the kitchen sink so he had to use the bathtub (his father was just _thrilled_ with that, btw). The little instruction booklet it came with _got fucking soaked and the ink all bled and it's made it almost impossible to decipher._ Then you have to fucking tie the turkey up and Jesus fucking Christ it was supposed to be in the oven stuffed full of bread and onion and goodness _hours ago._  He hasn’t even started on _peeling the fucking potatoes_ and apparently, everyone is just chilling at Scott’s at some sort of before party and fucking _Derek Hale_ has the gall, the _temerity_ to sit there and raise an eyebrow (he _knows the eyebrow was fucking raised ok)_ at Stiles naming the turkey Tom in a fit of _irony_ and _slight_ guilt at fucking violating it as he prepares it, _literally,_ to be eaten by wolves.

 

Apparently this is all a joke to everyone, Stiles and his desires for peace and less death in Beacon Hills, or at least less fucking _whining_ so he can have some much needed alone time (to deal with his _completely_ unwanted attraction to Derek Hale) is a _joke._ That they’re all laughing at. Over at Scott’s. Without him.  

 

But they do apparently still expect to be fed.  

 

Well, _not until Derek Hale is on his knees, looking up at Stiles, with the words, “I’m sorry,” falling from his lips._

 

Stiles figures that will happen approximately - never.

 

So he settles in for the long haul, a line of of increasingly gruesome movies queued up, a pile of junk food, and the will to mope and seethe and grouse continuously for the foreseeable future.  

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

When the doorbell rings again, Stiles loses the $500 bucks he just bet himself that Ethen would be the next shmuck they sent over. Incalculable variables aside, he should have been the next loser in the ‘Rock Paper Scissors Get Over There And Placate the Stiles Tournament’ he knows they have set up.  

 

But truss up Stiles and shove stuffing up _his_ butt if it isn’t Derek Hale.  

 

Stiles stares at him for a good minute or so in disbelief before Derek raises an eyebrow and says sarcastically, “May I come in?”

 

Wordlessly, Stiles stands aside, and tries not to shiver as Derek brushes up against him on his way in the door. They stare at each other for long, unproductive minutes after Stiles shuts the door.  

 

Finally Derek sighs, and says, “I’m sorry.”

 

Now it’s Stiles’ turn to raise an eyebrow.  

 

Derek sighs again and explains, “You’re busting your balls to give me a Thanksgiving, and I’m being unhelpful and ungrateful. I’m sorry.”

 

Stiles’ eyebrows scrunch down on his forehead in confusion for a moment. What? And then he remembers.  

 

About 3 weeks ago, he and Derek had been stuck sitting in his jeep together, waiting on the west side of the preserve to see if the newest supernatural nuisance was going to show itself. Derek had asked what he was doing for Thanksgiving. Stiles had shrugged, told him he and his Dad don’t really do anything all that much. It’s either the 24/7 diner in Beacon Hills or Aunt Mabel’s. Ugh. Aunt Mabel.  

 

Derek had said, “I miss Thanksgiving,” softly, and then the thing had landed on top of Roscoe and that had been the end of that discussion, until 2 days later, the brilliant idea of doing an all packs all included Thanksgiving had wormed its way up into Stiles’ brain.  

 

Ok. Altruism is not Stiles’ strong suit. Neither is keeping himself from having a full-blown unrequited love thing going for Derek Hale, despite his best efforts, because Stiles has totally been slaving away for the sole purpose of giving Derek Hale a Thanksgiving.

 

_Fuck you, subconscious,_ he thinks.   

 

And then he snaps back into the the present moment at the sound of his belt making a chinking sound as it is unfastened. By Derek Hale. Who is on his knees before Stiles, and Stiles is only _technically_ still a virgin at this point, but that looks suspiciously like Derek is assuming the position if you get Stiles’ drift.  

 

And that’s when Stiles figures out this is another hallucination. Seriously, Derek Hale saying, ‘I’m sorry,’ to Stiles Stilinski? Twice? That was his first clue right there. Stiles has given up fighting the hallucinations, mostly even given up the guilt over them too.  Nowadays he likes to just sit back, enjoy the ride. Derek unzips his pants and leans forward, presses his face into Stiles’ groin, breathes deep.  

 

Stiles sighs as his body relaxes and the tension seeps out of his muscles. He lets his eyes flutter closed and rides the waves of bliss rising in his mind; the sweet feeling of his stomach dropping out from under him.  

 

He brings his hands up to cup Derek’s face in between them and strokes his thumbs over Derek’s cheekbones. Stiles loves the feeling of Derek’s not stubble/not beard under his hands contrasted with the smooth skin under his thumbs. Derek groans, and Stiles feels the vibrations through his briefs. His dick (always half hard in the presence of Derek Hale nowadays), starts to get seriously invested in these proceedings.  

 

He feels Derek’s fingers slide under the edge of his briefs and stroke at his skin. He feels blood flush on his chest, along his arms and up his neck; feels it rushes down into his cock. Slowly, Derek inches his briefs downward. Stiles swallows. It’s so quiet, usually there’s a sort of buzzing in his head or ringing sound in his ears, but all is stillness and the sound of their breathing coupled with the soft rustle of cloth as Derek tortuously pulls his underwear down.

 

Stiles can feel his thighs start to tremble and the muscles of his stomach start to clench in the agony of suspense until at last, his cock springs free, hard and twitching. Stiles keeps his eyes closed, still absently stroking Derek’s face with his hands and fingers. Hallucination Derek (or what have you) seems content to merely watch as Stiles’ dick grows harder and harder with the rising tide of Stiles’ arousal, curving upwards towards his stomach.  

 

Stiles sighs, as close to bliss as he’s likely to get in this life, and slides his hands up Derek’s face to sink his fingers into his hair. At first touch it’s slightly stiff with gel, but underneath that it’s soft and thick and full. Stiles groans, and then Derek answers him with a groan of his own and then Stiles’ body jerks and his knees almost give out as his cock is drawn into the wet heat of Derek’s mouth.  

 

“God,” Stiles whines. His thighs shiver under Derek’s hands as he slides them back up to Stiles’ hips, and the free-fall feeling in his stomach intensifies as Derek’s hand curl around his waist in a firm grip and his thumbs stroke over Stiles’ hipbones.  

 

“Fuck yeah,” Stiles breathes, and Derek takes more of his cock into his mouth. Derek sucks, pulls back and bobs forward, pulls back again and then suddenly Stiles is receiving the most intense, filthy, fucking awesome blowjob his hallucinations have delivered him to date. His mind feels light and untethered, like it might fly away and sail off with the pleasure of it.  

 

The sounds of it, the slick slide of flesh and spit, the noises as Stiles’ dick is sucked in and out of Derek’s mouth and the grunts and aborted gasps Derek makes as it does. Fuck. Derek hardens his grip on Stiles’ hips and pulls Stiles closer to him, taking Stiles yet deeper into his mouth, any further and fuck, he’s gonna be sliding down Derek’s throat.  

 

Stiles’ eyes flutter open and he takes in the surrealness of it all. The view of his own living room that he’s seen a thousand times before but never like this, on the edge of agony and bliss. Stiles’ earth is being shattered over here and yet everything’s the same. Which is strange, because usually shadows twist and gather in the corners and darkness bleeds in at the edges of his vision. Not this time, it’s all a perfectly normal Saturday. Stiles would wonder at how strange that is, but then Derek’s tongue teases under his cockhead; curls around it and Stiles practically doubles over, punched in the stomach by the surge in pleasure and arousal.  

 

His legs almost give out, and he finds himself bending further over Derek, supporting himself by the grip he has in Derek’s hair. It pushes his cock deeper inside Derek’s mouth, and Stiles’ mouth falls open and he tries and fails to find air for the scream he wants to make as he feels the head of his cock it the back of Derek’s throat.

 

“Oh God,” he gasps finally, “Oh please.”

 

Derek, (there’s no other word for it) _hums_ around the length of Stiles down his throat and swallows and fuck if Stiles can’t process anything anymore except for how _good_ it feels. It feels like he’s dying, like Derek’s killing him and he wants it, wants that death with every bone in his body.

 

Stiles’ chest heaves and his heart pounds, his breath speeding up and he pulls his hips back just the little bit that this position will allow and thrusts back in and _fuck_ Derek makes this sound and just _takes_ it takes it so good. Stiles does it again, he fucks himself down Derek’s throat and then that’s it he’s gonna come, he realizes with startled clarity, his body tenses as he tries to push himself yet deeper into Derek’s mouth and down his throat. Derek just - _opens_ \- for him, moans loudly and distorted around Stiles’ cock in his mouth, and at the feel of Derek’s hand sliding off his hip around his ass and the stroke of one of his fingers against his hole, Stiles tips over the edge and he’s coming with a violence he hadn’t known was possible.

 

He comes and comes, breathes out as his hips thrust him forward into Derek’s mouth and he pulses down his throat, breathes in in shallow gasps as he rocks back slightly, whines as his hips pump his cock forward again to shoot more inside of Derek, his hands clenching and unclenching helplessly in Derek’s hair. It’s unending, wave after wave of pleasure, dying with it, being remade by it, cradled in it, as Derek’s arms wrap around and up his back and support him as his legs tremble and his toes curl.  

 

He wants to die.  

 

He wants to live.  

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Stiles comes out of the hallucination, notably, to realize something that (for some reason, doesn’t surprise him all that much) - that it was no hallucination at all.

 

Derek Hale just gave Stiles his first real blowjob and probably destroyed most of Stiles cognitive functions forever while doing so. Sometime during the all-encompassing whiteout of his orgasm and its afterglow, Stiles sunk down to his knees and is now slumped half onto Derek’s chest, head tucked into the crook of Derek’s neck and shoulder.  

 

It is, (as Stiles breathes the smell of Derek in, feels Derek’s pulse as it runs under his skin) absolutely the most wonderful and terrifying place he has ever found himself in.  

 

Derek has one hand curled around the back of Stiles’ neck and the other on the back of Stiles’ thigh, which he then uses to pull Stiles forward and maneuver him until he’s well, cradled (for lack of a better term) in Derek’s embrace and resting in his lap. It’s awesome.  

 

“Possibly,” Stiles murmurs, his voice sounding hoarse and just _wrecked_ , “I convinced myself that it wasn’t real in order to not freak out about it and enjoy it.”

 

“Oh?” Derek says, complete with an eyebrow raise if Stiles isn’t mistaken, which he isn’t Stiles just knows these things).

 

“You broke me, by the way,” Stiles sighs, “I am completely fucking broken good job awesome.”

 

“Hmmm,” Derek says, noncommittally, (but Stiles knows that Derek’s smug smirk mouth has made an appearance).  

 

“Maybe,” Stiles drops a hand down into Derek’s crotch and rubs suggestively over the (no doubt) aching hard on he’s sporting there, “You could have a go at fucking me now that I’m all loose and boneless and compliant that could be fun, yeah?”

 

Derek stiffens, and his arms clamp down around Stiles, who nuzzles with extreme self satisfaction into Derek’s neck.  

 

“Oh!” Stiles starts, and half sits up as much as he’s able, “You should kiss me now, we should kiss I want to feel your tongue in my _spleen_ -” And then Derek’s mouth is slotted against his and they just _fit,_ it works, in a way Stiles has always imagined but was apparently unable to get correct because this, this is fucking _amazing_ a chorus in his head liquid heat all down his spine.

 

Derek sucks on his lower lip and Stiles slips his tongue inside Derek’s mouth, presses it against Derek’s tongue and both of them groan at that. Derek presses his mouth against Stiles’ harder, pulls him closer and _fuck_ the friction of his stubble against Stiles’ cheek is fucking _heavenly_ that’s what it is. Somehow Stiles (graceful as a gazelle when he’s distracted by sex apparently fuck yes) has maneuvered his body into straddling Derek’s lap, and they’re rocking into each other, Derek thrusting up against Stiles as Stiles rolls his hips down against Derek's cock. Stiles isn’t sure if there’s a word for what their mouths are doing, as kissing doesn’t seem to cover it adequately; the dance and tease back and forth - the way Stiles feels like he’s being devoured and consumed by Derek as he does his best to do  the same to Derek in kind.  

 

Then all Stiles can do is pant and whine helplessly as Derek presses his face into Stiles’ neck and just clutches at him as his hips thrust and rock up into Stiles. “Oh,” Stiles’ gasps, “Oh, oh,” as Derek stiffens and Stiles can _feel_ it underneath him as Derek pulses in his jeans and _oh fuck is that hot that is the hottest -_ Stiles did that _Stiles did that;_ Derek Hale is coming in his jeans because of Stiles Stilinski.

 

Stiles has one moment of blank surprise and then he shrieks as Derek _bites_ him, sinks (human teeth, they’re human) into the side of Stiles’ neck and he’s momentarily terrified at the amount of things he fears, but first and foremost among them is how much he wants this, wants Derek; will do anything to keep feeling him and keep feeling this way.  

 

Stiles, well, he kind of _pets_ Derek, along his shoulders, down his sides, threading his fingers through his hair as Derek's body shudders against him and he comes down from his high. He may or may not be murmuring sweet nothings, he hopes Derek is too far gone to pay attention but Stiles is completely unable to stop.  

 

Words like ‘that’s it’ and ‘I’ve got you’ and ‘so good so fucking perfect Derek’, lots of helplessly sighing and moaning and keening out the word ‘Derek’ at different pitches, which is kind of needy and besotted to be honest. So much for playing things close to the vest. Stiles loses words and trembles against Derek as he presses contrite lips against the bite he gave him, soothes at it gently with his tongue.  

 

“Hey,” Stiles says, “Wanna use your werewolf strength to put Tom the Turkey in his place and get this Thanksgiving fiasco on its way?”

 

“I’m not calling it Tom,” Derek growls, but Stiles can feel the smile he’s hiding against his skin.  

 

Stiles should really, slither, or something off of Derek now before he says something really fucking stupid like, ‘I love you’ or ‘marry me’ or ‘give me werewolf babies.’ _Holy Christ that last one though._ Danger Will Robinson. Stiles needs to get a grip it’s just a crush just a little crush and fuck it.

 

He pulls Derek’s face up to his again and kisses him urgently, filled with all the things it would be such an epically bad idea to say. “Or,” He groans in between tastes of Derek’s mouth, “We could just say it’s the thought that counts and spend Thanksgiving up in my bed.”

 

If pressed Stiles would have labeled himself most likely to be the octopus in any given relationship but he’s got nothing on Derek, who wraps himself so completely around Stiles it doesn’t seem that they’ll ever be two separate people again. Which is so completely and totally fine with Stiles he can’t even articulate except to suck Derek’s tongue desperately back into his mouth.  

 

“Bed?” Stiles gasps.

 

“Bed,” Derek growls.

 

They make it up there eventually.  

 

The story of how his Dad came home to discover the unfinished mess that was Stiles’ attempt at a Turkey dinner in the kitchen, stormed upstairs and barged into Stiles’ room to be greeted with the sight of Stiles and Derek in a highly compromising position that may or may not have resembled a certain pair of numbers is something best left to oblivion, where Stiles has been trying to consign it to ever since.  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sterek! [Tumblr!](http://rizuno.tumblr.com/) Ooo la la!


End file.
